Just My Type
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: When you think about it, it was obvious...
1. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes strode into his flat at 221B Baker St, took off his scarf and coat, hung them up then went and sat in his armchair.

He was feeling… odd. There was just no other way to describe it. What annoyed him most was that he didn't know why he was feeling the way he did. And he most definitely didn't like it.

As he sat his fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair. He was full of nervous energy, and his mind, usually so sharp and alert, was having difficulty remaining focussed.

And this time drugs were not the cause.

Everything inside him was racing and he found it impossible to remain seated. He sprang up from his chair and began pacing around the room.

Within five minutes he realised this was proving neither helpful nor productive. Giving an exasperated sigh, he ran his hand through his unruly curls. He then returned to the armchair, settled back and took a long, deep breath.

With his elbows resting on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin, he closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace.

He walked from room to room, searching for an explanation for the unsettling feelings that had him on edge.

Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Fake Moriarty.

Recent difficult family situation…

No. Nome of them offered him the answers he sought.

He was about to give up his search when he spotted another door, one that he hadn't seen before.

That was curious, a room is his Mind Palace that he had not been conscious of making.

He walked over to the door, opened it and entered. He found himself in a room that was almost in complete darkness. The only light came from a large computer screen at the far end of the room.

As he walked towards the computer, words began to appear on the screen.

Meticulous.  
Ordinary.  
Likeable.  
Loyal.  
Yellow.

Honest.  
Open.  
Orderly.  
Plain.  
Earnest.  
Reliable.

As Sherlock stared at the list, the first letter from each word lifted from the screen to swirl and dance around him.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Oh…"

Before he had time to let his usual rational thought processes to take over he got up, and hastily put his scarf and coat back on.

Dashing down the stairs, he almost collided with Mrs Hudson who had just come in the front door with a bag of groceries.

"Got a new case Sherlock?" she asked.

"Have to get to Bart's," he replied, barely glancing her way.

Martha Hudson may have been getting on in years, but there were still some things she could see very clearly.

"About time," she called after him.

But Sherlock didn't hear her as he slammed the front door. He had something far more important on his mind as he strode towards the road, arm outstretched.

"Taxi!"


	2. Molly

Molly Hooper sat at her desk in her office at St Bart's Hospital. She was supposed to be catching up on paperwork. But the pile had not been touched for the 45 minutes she had been sitting there.

Instead she sat staring off into space, unconsciously rubbing her now bare ring finger.

'After all, not all the men you fall for turn out to be sociopaths,' he'd said.

That had certainly been true of Tom, she thought. Sighing she rubbed her finger one more time before reaching for the first report on top of the pile.

But even before she began filling out the required information, her thoughts were already miles away.

Poor Tom.

He'd been sweet, kind and attentive. In fact everything you could ever hope for in a potential husband.

Except…

She had tried, she really had. She'd wanted that relationship to work with all her heart…

But it wasn't to be.

She knew it, so did Tom, though he did try to act as if nothing had changed.

But it had.

So she'd ended it.

She knew she'd made the right decision. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

'I hope you'll be very happy Molly Hooper. You deserve it.'

He'd been right there. She did deserve to be happy.

The question though was happy with whom?

Taking a deep breath Molly decided it was time she found out. "Okay then, what would make me happy?"

More to the point, who could make her happy?

She rested her head on the cool, wooden surface of her desk, and let out a silent groan as she instantly regretted where her thoughts might be taking her.

"What would be the point anyway?" she muttered to herself.

"Coward!" cried her inner voice.

"Oh hell." Resigning herself to her fate she sat up straight again. "Let's just get this over and done with."

She reached for her pen and a piece of paper. At the top of the page she wrote:

Molly's Type

She then began on her list.

Slim  
Handsome  
Enigmatic  
Rude  
Logical  
Over-bearing  
Curly-haired  
Khan-ish

Hypnotic  
Overpowering  
Lovely  
Manipulative  
Excentric  
Striking

She put her pen down, then read through her list and let out another groan.

Well that confirmed it. She was doomed!

And as if to prove the point, at that very moment the personification of her required attributes swept into her office. His belstaff whipping around his legs as he strode purposefully towards her.

Sherlock was making his way round to her side of the desk when she remembered the list.

But just as Molly went to grab it and throw it away, Sherlock reached out, getting to it first.

He perused the list briefly, before turning Molly, chair and all towards him, and leaned in close to her.

"Molly Hooper, I believe we need to have a little chat."


	3. Sherlolly

Molly was finding it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

"A…About?" she finally managed.

Sherlock straightened up and stepped back, the slip of paper still in his hand.

Molly instantly felt disappointed and relieved that he was no longer in her personal space. But she was also in a state of panic that he still had her list.

"I have a problem I require your assistance with solving," he responded as he slipped her note into his coat pocket.

Resignation rolled over her, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

Of course, this was Sherlock Holmes after all, always in need of something from her.

Why would she think that would ever change?

If only the something he was after was her…

Molly shut her eyes and mentally shook her head. 'Don't go there,' she warned herself. 'Remember, he doesn't see you that way.'

Looking down at her from where he stood, Sherlock read the emotions that crossed her face.

'Oh Molly, if only you knew,' he thought.

Sherlock abruptly turned and made his way to the door. "Do come along Molly. Its important."

Molly let out a resigned sigh and got to her feet.

"I thought you'd decided I couldn't help you solve mysteries anymore," she said as she approached him.

Sherlock stood back, and with the barest tilt of his head indicated that she should go ahead of him.

"Yes, well that was before," he replied as they made their way towards the lift. "But this is a very particular problem."

When they arrived at his flat at Baker's St. Molly was a little surprised that Sherlock didn't immediately go into details of the very important problem.

In fact as soon as they had walked in, their coats etc. hung up and the door to his flat closed, Sherlock became what she could only describe as uncertain. Nervous even.

And that just wasn't Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Okay was definitely not how Sherlock was feeling at that very moment.

He had absolutely no idea how to proceed. Of course he was pleased, relieved even, when he's read her list. That at least proved that she still held strong feelings for him.

But telling her how he felt…

There was still the possibility she could reject him. She had after all noted down rude, over-bearing and manipulative.

And what did Khan-ish mean anyway?

Molly watched Sherlock closely as he stood motionless in the middle of the room. She knew what it meant. He was searching for possible clues or solutions in his Mind Palace.

Except that something wasn't right.

She walked over to him and looked up into his blue-green eyes.

It was then that she spotted it.

Fear.

Sherlock was afraid of something. And he needed her help.

Very gently she reached up and held his face in her hands.

"It's all right Sherlock," she said softly. "There's no need to be afraid. I'm here."

Sherlock looked down into Molly's soft, warm brown eyes. He reached out and cradled her face as she cradled his. He then leaned down until his forehead rested against hers.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"Not what. Who."

Molly moved her hands to around his neck. Her fingers entwined in his curls.

"Who do you need Sherlock?" she whispered.

"You Molly, always you."

Finis


End file.
